The Institute of Global Warfare
by Dontkillchic
Summary: "They make heroes out of boys, son. They drive back the ones who would do bad to the world, keep them in their place." A word from his father and Alfred was sold on the idea. However, even in the noblest of places hide the darkest secrets...
1. Chapter 1: An arrival

**May I apologise in advance for the speed that this will be updated: slowly. I'm terrible at remembering to do things, sorry about that. Also, with regards to my other story…I may or may not begin updating that again. If I choose to do so I'll likely re-write the chapters I already have because I detest them u'''**

**Anyway, without further ado here is the first chapter! I can't say right now if pairing warnings shall be needed for I have not decided whether to include such a thing at the moment. Rest assured if anything crops up in future it won't be anything too racy though _**

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><p><strong><span>Room 4, West Wing, First floor. Dormitory Block<span>**

The room was a lot smaller than he had expected. They'd only just squeezed in the wrought iron bunk bed against the far wall, making use of the nook it was tucked into to add a rickety table - for coffee and paperwork, it seemed, judging by the stains on its worn surface. Then there was a tall wardrobe that stretched up all the way to the high ceiling, yet was so thin you couldn't fit more than four uniforms on its rail. That was it. No fancy desks, no lavish armchairs, not even a book shelf on its bare walls. He'd expected more.

"And this," said the man who'd lead him here, "Is where you'll sleep. I know, I know, there's not a lot of space but you'll probably spend most of your free time with the other recruits elsewhere." The man smiled at him. He was a fairly tall man with a surprisingly slender build for a soldier of his rank - a Corporal, possibly, that's what two white 'v's meant, right? - But his demeanour was welcoming, trustworthy. The man caught him staring. "Private Jones? Are you all right? You seemed spaced out."

Jones shook himself. He didn't want to make a fool of himself on his first day - he'd waited to long for this. "Oh! Sorry du- Corporal -" he cursed inwardly for letting the colloquialism slip in there "- Everything's so big and new! Probably just shock, I'll get over it soon, sir," he laughed, flashing the slightly smaller man a grin. Corporal Lorinaitis - god that name was difficult to remember, so many 'i's - nodded politely, though he didn't look like he fully believed the new recruit.

"Of course, first day nerves. We all get them! Now, I need to get back over to the East wing, get settled in. West Wing's training is at 1500." The brown haired man saluted and Jones returned the gesture, standing attention to his senior until he gave him permission to relax, "At ease, Private," and began down the metal walk way towards the wing adjacent to them.

Jones stood by the door to his room, watching Lorinaitis march neatly to the first row of rooms, disappearing down the corridor on the left. Sighing, he hoisted his bag of the floor, surveying the room with a grimace. It could be worse, he thought, there could be cockroaches.

He was about to step inside when he heard the Corporal again, "Oh! And Private?"

The Private swivelled to face him. "Yes, sir?"

"I don't advise turning up late to anything else in future. I doubt even a valid excuse will get out you out of punishment again - you're lucky it's your first day," the man called sternly, though his face was wrinkled in friendly concern.

"'Course sir!" he shouted back, shooting Lorinaitis a grateful smile as he turned to enter his room.

Once inside, it seemed even more cramped than before. Opening the wardrobe, he was surprised to see a two uniforms hanging there already, both neatly pressed and crisp. "I'm bunking with someone else?" he murmured to himself. The Corporal had failed to mention that. What else had he failed to mention: "Oh yes, the bed spread spontaneously combusts if you sleep in late and the table will attack you if you spill stuff on it."

He shivered at the thought. "Nah," he reassured himself, "That's stupid – it must be a new recruit too and it just slipped Lorinaitis' mind."

Still, he found himself on edge as he hung up his own uniforms and stuffed his training wear in the empty draw underneath. It wasn't that he was afraid. No way! Alfred F. Jones wasn't afraid of anything. He was just concerned, that's all. Nothing wrong with a little caution in life and nothing wrong with carrying two small vials filled with holy water and salt around your neck either.

He flopped down onto the bottom bunk, blowing his fringe out of his eyes. Yawning, he looked at his watch – waterproof to 100 metres, thank you very much – and saw he had a good hour before he had to be down at training. A good time to catch up on some well needed rest. Kicking off his heavy combat boots, he shifted into a comfortable sleeping position. The mattress was lumpy, but Alfred was so tired from that morning's events that he found himself drifting off, eyes fluttering closed, breathing steady. Until-

"Eh, you know that's my bunk, right?"

Alfred nearly leapt out of his skin, eliciting a – very manly – shriek as he grasped at the vials around his neck. The new presence smirked a little. Alfred was glad to see that it wasn't an evil spirit come to devour his soul, instead there stood a young man – his age by the looks of it – meekly resting against the door. Somehow, this new arrival had entered and closed the door without a single sound and he seemed to revel in his stealth, as he seemed to be fighting back a giggle.

"You're Alfred, right? Private Jones?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Urm, yep! That's me! I guess you're my roommate then," Alfred replied, nodding dumbly, "which I didn't know I had 'til I put my stuff in the closet," he added, muttering darkly.

The man seemed disheartened by this. Alfred hadn't meant to upset him, but the other looked away with a sad hum. Alfred couldn't help but ogle him a little. He was about Alfred's own height with stocky shoulders and a slight slouch. Though he had kind, deep blue eyes – almost violet – the way he held himself suggested that he had some strength in those lanky arms. His hair was blonde, like Alfred's own, but it was wavy and came down past his ears. Upon his nose – very defined, pointy – perched a pair of half-frame glasses, exactly the same as Alfred's own.

"Dude! You look like me! You must be my long lost twin, or something."

The look alike made a face. He didn't appear too thrilled at the prospect of being related to his roommate. Dropping the grin quickly from his face, Alfred twiddled his thumbs. An uncomfortable silence fell on the room.

Finally, Alfred broke the silence. "So," he said, drawing out the vowel, "What's your name then?"

The other perked up a little at the question. "Matthew," he answered, "Matthew Williams. I'm a Private too, though I've already been here a few months."

A few months? Then how could the Corporal have forgotten him? Alfred decided not to ask. Considering the reaction he got before, he didn't want to bring up how Matthew hadn't been mentioned to him. Instead, he grinned. "It's awesome to meet ya, Mattie!"

The blond gave him a pained smile. "'S nice to meet you to, Alfie."

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><p>With someone to talk to, the time passed quickly. They were midway through their discussion on which of their flags was better – Matthew was Canadian, much to Alfred's surprise and disappointment – when something had started beeping furiously.<p>

"Oh!" Mattie exclaimed, "That's my alarm, we need to get ready for training." After fiddling with a few buttons on his watch, Matthew upped and began riffling through the wardrobe for some different clothes. Alfred looked at his own timepiece. Ten to three. With a groan, Alfred dragged his feet to the wardrobe, watching over Matthew's shoulder. "What do we wear?" he asked, "Y'know, for training and stuff."

The man laughed lightly. "Ah, there's no real code, eh. Something not too loose though; most people wear tank tops and tuck their trousers into their boots." He pointed to his own pile of clothes. Black trousers were neatly folded at the bottom, on top lay a plain maroon t-shirt and a pair of what looked like swimming goggles.

"What's with that?" Alfred pointed to them, "Do we have to swim through stuff?"

Matthew chuckled. "Nah, the Captain's crap at swimming so we wouldn't do that. They're prescription-" He tapped the edges of his glasses. "Contacts disagree with me, this way my lenses won't break."

Alfred inwardly slapped himself. His glasses! What was he going to do now? He could hardly see without them, and he couldn't risk them breaking: he had no back up.

Meanwhile, Matthew wasn't helping matters. "What's worse, if they shatter, the pieces can imbed themselves in your eye and then-"

"Matt, please," Alfred cut him off, panicking a little, "I don't have contacts or stupid goggles – no offense – what am I going to do?"

"I don't know," the other blond huffed, a little put out at the 'stupid goggle' comment, "Lose your eye sight completely? Look, man, we don't have time. The Captain and the Lieutenant are really strict about being on time, we need to change."

Alfred nodded. He'd be fine. So long as he didn't fall flat on his face.

**Junior Officer Assault Course, Outside**

After changing hurriedly, they followed a scattering of other recruits down the western staircase, the speed of their decent on the spiral steps making Alfred giddy. He was nervous of what lay ahead. From what Matthew had told him, there would be two officers in charge of the training today, both from the West block on the 3rd floor. They both sounded like they had a stick up their arse, and a fucking long one at that, but Matthew said that was a good thing. Alfred failed to see thing the same way as the Canadian, maybe he'd change his mind when he met them.

When they reached the training ground, however, Alfred's hopes deflated with a whimper.

"He is rather intimidating, isn't he?" Matt whispered to him.

Alfred nodded. The man, their Lieutenant, was huge, stern and probably killed puppies with no remorse. Even from a distance, he appeared to tower over the entire West-Unit, ice blue eyes drilling into them, watching their every move. While he did not frown, his eyes were not kind like Corporal Lorinaitis' – they reminded Alfred of his old chemistry teacher, who'd hated his guts. The Lieutenant's hair was combed back so as none fell across his face; his uniform was neat, clean and hung perfectly and his boots were shined so brilliantly that the sun was bouncing off them and blinding the recruits.

If it hadn't been for his neatly groomed exterior, he would have appeared lumbering with his stocky shoulders and broad chest. However, he stood tall and rod-straight, steps heavy but precise.

"Today," the man began; his voice heavily accented "is very, very important."

Alfred leant over to hiss at Mattie, "Is he European?"

"Not now," Matthew hissed, "Be quiet"

"You may think it is important because it is your first day. This, however, is wrong. It is important because every day here is important. If you believe you can half-arse your training then you are wrong. If you believe you can get off drill because you have a cold then you are wrong. And if you think you can disrespect your superiors by muttering about their nationality while they are talking then you owe me thirty push ups, Private." He glared at Alfred, who paled.

"You heard th-?"

"Thirty. Push-ups," the German growled and Alfred dropped and started them furiously. Lieutenant Happy nodded sternly, and then continued his lecture, prowling up and down the line of new recruits like a hunting predator. So much for a good start.

Despite the Lieutenant's intimidating nature, he was a man of reason and order. The Private's training session was therefore organised, disciplinary and mind-numbingly dull.

They started with a cross country jog. The track looped round the edge of the training ground and dormitory block, behind a one-story building which turned out to be the canteen, passed the armoury and wove into the dense copse to the east of the complex before finishing back at the assault course. It was a long trudge through the thick mud and foliage. Several of the younger recruits fell behind, wheezing heavily.

Matthew was among those having trouble. Combat boots dragging him down, he found himself lagging behind the main body of the group. After a few months he'd expected to have adapted to these strains he placed on his body but his endurance in this area had not improved in the slightest.

_The last week's rain hasn't helped either_ he thought gloomily as he yanked his foot from a deep puddle. He winced at the conspicuous squelching it made then trudged off again in the wake of the others.

Soon finding himself knee-deep again.

Up ahead, Matthew's roommate was fairing far better than he. Alfred, in the youth, had spent a fair amount of time running about his school and neighbourhood so his stamina didn't falter. The mud still got the better of him too, however. He, like the other Privates, found himself sinking lower and lower into the ooze with every step.

The real trouble came when they reached the copse.

The little patch of woodland was a curious thing. From the outside, it appeared a charming and welcoming stretch of greenery amongst the dullness of concrete and machinery. Its outward appearance was unfortunately deceiving. Behind the vibrant layer of leafy vibrancy lay a decaying habitat, devoid of sunlight and nutrients due to the closeness of the trees. As Alfred entered it, he was hit by a wall of cloying stench - mouldy carcasses of dead trees and drooping flowers. He spluttered – it was like walking into a compost heap, albeit a compost heap full of sweaty army recruits.

Aside from the smell, the dead vegetation brought another problem. In the dank and dark, water remained in the soil until it was snatched by nearby roots. But in places the land was so desolate that the earth was saturated, causing mud so gloopy you could sink up to your waist in it.

The entire group slowed at this point; even the Lieutenant was having difficulty clambering over debris and crawling through mud.

Matthew seemed the only one glad by this development (a surprise to everyone). In the few months he'd been training, he'd learnt where the most hazardous spots were; how best to use the scattered logs to his advantage and – most importantly – _never_ to run though puddles. Death traps, the lot of them. Because of this knowledge, he soon caught up with the others and drew level with Alfred, who looked a bit dazed and had one boot wedged in the sludge.

"Having trouble, eh?" he asked, a smug grin plastered on his face.

Alfred shot him a dark look before tugging his foot free. "Shut up, Mattie," he whined, "You're the one who's been having trouble. This is just…an anomaly." Finishing with a curt nod of his head, he set off again. He settled into a comfortable jog, dodging round a pile of rotting wood and making to leap over a wide puddle.

Which is when his boot stuck in the mud and his momentum sent him tumbling face-first into the water.

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><p><strong><em>AN: Still unhappy with ending still unhappy with-<em>**


	2. Chapter 2: The globe in a mess hall

**Just a couple of things before I get this chapter started: 1) I've changed the main characters to Alfred and Arthur (even though Arthur has yet to make an appearance). This is not to say there will be USUK – this is a there-might-be-if-when-I-write-it-it's-not-terrible-and-it-makes-sense. The other reason is that they both play pretty big parts in this story, even though Arthur's part isn't so obvious yet. 2) This was not the original length of chapter 2. I originally had a whole bunch more I wanted in this chapter but then suddenly it exploded and was **_**hella-long**_**. Well, the entire word document was bordering on 10,000 words and considering the first chapter is only about 2000, that's a lot. I want to deliver it to you in sizable but fairly regularly too. So I have a bit of chapter 3 started as well~! 3) Keep an open mind and don't get too confused by stuff that doesn't make sense yet. There will be some things, I'm sure. There's one particular thing that you'll probably pick up on as odd that's pretty key in the story in this chapter, so keep an eye out! I also encourage you to make assumptions and theories as to these oddities too! Put them in a review or a PM! I love reading them! Speculation lets me know you're enjoying reading~**

**But without further ado, on with the chapter!**

Chapter 2: 

**The Compound Copse, Outside**

Alfred yelped loudly as he felt himself falling. Many of his fellow recruits heard, turning in time to see him get a face full of puddle. Within seconds, they'd all abandoned their run in favour of the amusing spectacle; the copse filled with raucous laughter. Some of the younger ones resorted to immature jibing and jeering which rose even about the laughing.

Matthew allowed himself a smirk, but felt awful doing so and quickly strode over to pull Alfred from the gunk. He was covered in the stuff: his clothes were sodden and most likely ruined too, large lumps of mud clinging to the fabric and his hair and skin. Alfred spat a mouthful of muddy water out and the crowd guffaws increased in response.

"F-fuck, that tastes nasty," the drenched Private choked, coughing out mud.

"Well, you were showing off a bit," murmured Matthew. Alfred opened his mouth to retaliate, but then a stern voice called.

"PRIVATES. Just what on earth is going on here? What did I tell you about messing around during training?" The Lieutenant was yelling with such intensity the recruits closest discretely covered their ears. The previously stoic man was bright red in the face, barely holding back a snarl. Clearly, he was adverse to slackers.

"Jones, what on earth happened to you?" The man turned to him – still fuming, but at least not shouting anymore.

"Well…I was…running…" Alfred trailed off in embarrassment.

"Running? What, with your face? Why are you covered in mud?"

"I tripped, sir. My boot got caught in the mud."

Shifting sheepishly under the Lieutenant's stare, he fiddled with the hem of his sopping white shirt. He saw Matthew fidgeting too, out of the corner of his eye. Even being near their superior's line of sight was enough to make a man nervous.

The Lieutenant wasn't sympathetic. "You were obviously messing around. You must be more vigilant and disciplined in future." Then he turned on his heel and began to jog off again, the Privates following suit.

Alfred had to catch his jaw before it dropped. _No way, he's just going to reprimand me! Isn't he even going to let me change?_

As if reading his mind, an accented voice came calling back, "Perhaps you'll learn if you spend the rest of the session in your wet clothes, Private Jones!"

**Mess hall, Canteen Block**

After that sorry excuse for a gentle introduction – hellish torture, as Alfred heard another accurately describe it – the group retired to the canteen for an early dinner. Alfred was famished. He'd barely been able to grab anything for lunch and he was used to eating at about five in the afternoon: it was now six.

If this was early, Alfred would hate to suffer a late meal.

Double-timing to get a good place in the queue, Alfred was aware of hurried footsteps behind him. He was pleasantly surprised to be greeted with the sight of Matthew jogging to catch up with him, a pained grin of his face.

"Aren't you even going to change, eh?" Matt panted. Alfred shook his head.

"No way, I'm starving. Ain't nothing or nobody that'll keep me from food," he laughed, though he refrained from mentioning that Matt still wore his sweat stained top and muddy combat boots.

The line, thankfully, moved at a reasonable pace. It seemed this place had an army of catering staff and well as soldiers. Numerous women and men in hairnets and aprons scurried back and forth, delivering clean dishes and taking away dirty ones, bringing forth fresh vats of stew and soup, shovelling meat and vegetables onto the plates the soldiers handed them. It was all impressively choreographed. Not a single hand or elbow collided. Alfred whistled lowly at the sight. Damn, if there was anything he appreciated, it was people who knew how to run a kitchen. Especially if they appeared to give bigger servings to the people who asked them how their day was going and flashed a smile. Two things he could manage easily.

There was only one person left in front of him – a small guy, dark hair, couldn't be older much older than Alfred himself – when Matthew tapped him on the shoulder.

"If you're really hungry, sweet talk ol' Doris there," he advised, pointing to a portly, kind looking lady with crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, "She's a softy."

Jones grinned at him. "Thanks, Mattie!" He kept the same smile plastered on his face as he took a tray and skipped along to the woman Matthew had pointed out to him.

"I'll have a bit of everything, ma'am," he chirped and the woman laughed.

"Aye, don't we all wish we 'ad that, ey? I can 'ardly let a strapping young lad like you get fat on the trimming," she said loudly and Alfred blinked in confusion. _Didn't Matt say she was soft?_

As it turned out, she was. "Now, I can't give yer everything," he said, her voice quieter now, "But I can give yer a little extra meat and potato if yer want."

The Private grinned widely. "Yes please!"

Alfred came away with a steaming plate, piled high with mashed potato and the largest pork chop Doris could fish out, along with a generous ladle of stew and peas. His mouth was watering just at the thought of it all. He'd never even tasted stew before as his father didn't have much of a taste for it, along with most of the people who lives around him. Alfred thought it a great shame. He'd read about it on the internet. It sounded _amazing._

Matthew finished being served soon after and Alfred trained after him until they reached a table that a number of others already occupied. The man who'd been in front of Alfred was there – now he'd caught a sight of his face, it was a good guess to say his was of Asian origin – along with a sulking brunette, who was stabbing at his food with malice, and a smug looking man with silvery hair and the creepiest eyes Alfred had ever seen. The jumpy Private started when they were trained on him: the irises were a deep, bloody crimson.

_Oh my god, he's a demon, he is a demon and he is going to eat me _and_ my stew_ _and then polish of Mattie for desert._

"What's wrong with sludge boy, did he catch sight of a puddle?" the demon jeered, cackling to itself when no one else laughed.

Unsure how to react, Alfred just stood there; dumbly. This wasn't the behaviour of some supernatural being – unless it was trying to distract him.

_Confusion, huh? Tricky little-_

"Shut up, Gil," Matthew reprimanded, shoving the demon's chair with his foot. Alfred flinched: the Canadian was for it now. _Alas, poor Mattie, I knew him well._

Much to the Private's surprise and relief, 'Gil' just sniggered and gave Matthew a playful shove. "Ah, come on, Matt. You're no fun!"

"It's not fun to take the piss, Gilbert, even if he _was_ being a moron."

"Hey! I take offence to that!"

Matthew waved Alfred off with a smirk. "Don't deny that you were, though. Alfred, this is Lance Corporal Gilbert Beilschmidt. Gil, Private Alfred Jones."

"Urm, you missed the F-"

"Nice to meet you, _Private_," the man interrupted, "Another on the long list of people I outrank, ha!" Beilschmidt proceeded to snicker to himself. He was a little brash, as far as Alfred could tell, and the bewildered Private wasn't sure what to think of this strange man. At least, Alfred realised, he wasn't a demon. Cheeks pinking at his mistake, he decided to sit down before he embarrassed himself further, pulling up a seat next to the quiet Asian man. Matthew took one next to him, meaning he was also next to the Lance Corporal. The silver haired man seemed chuffed about this and laid an arm on the back of Matthew's seat, before the other swatted it away.

"So, urm, Gilbert…"

"That's my name, go ahead and wear it out."

Alfred frowned, accompanied with a slight pout. "You weren't at our training this morning. It was a closed session with just the new lot from our Wing and I think I'd have noticed someone like you running around if you'd been there."

Beilschmidt raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Yeah, and? What, you just upset I wasn't there to keep you company?"

"No, I meant…how did you know I fell in a puddle if you weren't actually there? It couldn't have been thirty minutes since it happened."

The other's grin grew. "I got contacts, man."

"Is that why your eyes are red?"

"No, no- Like _people_ contacts. I know everything that goes on around here-" The Lance broke from boasting to chew a mouthful of sausage. "-'specially the funny stuff. And god, was that hilarious.

"I got here earlier than you guys today because my training ended early," Beilschmidt explained, waving his fork in the air with a piece of meat skill skewered on it, "And I was just chilling out and eating when the first group of newbies came in. They were giggling like school girls, so I called them over like '_Oi, girlies, what are you laughing at?'_" He broke off to laugh. It was a peculiar noise – sounding more like a toothy whistle than an actual laugh.

"'Course, they weren't too happy about that, but they told me anyway because no one can resist an audience with the awesome. They told me some brat with a screwy accent tripped over his own feet in that sorry excuse for a copse and ended up with a face fulla the drink. _That's_ how I know. Impressed?"

"Not…really," Alfred replied, raising an incredulous eyebrow. He'd been expecting some tale of espionage and snooping, but instead it appeared the man was just curious and good at interrogating strangers for answers. Hardly awe inspiring.

Deciding not to muse over that any longer, Alfred turned his attention to his dinner. It was all piping-hot; in his eagerness to taste the stew, Alfred burnt his tongue and had to spend a minute nursing it with a glass of water before he could continue.

The gravy-soaked meat and vegetables weren't quite as Alfred had expected them to taste. The lumps of beef were so tender they literally fell apart of he tried to eat them and they didn't taste right unless they had a thick coating of the gravy only all sides. The carrots and parsnips were soft too – Alfred had never eaten root vegetables that were so squishy. The overall experience was far from unpleasant, but the Private was reserved about choosing stew again next time.

As he began tucking into the rest of his food, he became aware that the others were conversing. Alfred had been so immersed in stuffing his face he'd completely blanked it, but he was drawn into the conversation when the Asian man to his right mentioned something he'd been keen to avoid.

"-heard that the SNA was getting noisy again," he commented, voice rather nonchalant but polite.

"When _aren't_ they rowdy, eh?" Matthew scoffed, glaring at his half-empty plate.

"That is true, but I overheard our Captain talking to the East Major that it is not that same as usual. There are rumours that they wish to encroach further into US territory, perhaps even into Canada. But no one knows why they are suddenly disturbed in such a way: they have been very peaceful for years."

"What's this about the SNA?" Alfred butted in after swallowing his mouthful of mash.

The Asian man turned to him with a small smile. "Ah, Private Jones. We were just talking about how they seem to be restless at the moment."

Matthew spoke up from behind Alfred. "Al, this is Kiku Honda. He's from the East Wing on our floor; he joined the same time I did." Honda bowed his head respectfully and Alfred was unsure whether to return the gesture or not.

"I am from Japan," the man told him. Alfred had noticed the other spoke a little differently to the rest of them – clearly English was not his first language.

He hadn't finished though. "Where are you from, Jones-san?"

Alfred spluttered. "U-urm-"

"Al's from Northern Pennsylvania," Matthew cut in, issuing a gasp from Honda and a boggled look from Beilschmidt. Even the fifth man on the table, who had done naught but curse at his meal in a foreign language since Alfred sat down, shot him a curious look before he began to stab his meat again.

"Thanks, Matt," Alfred hissed, an uncharacteristic venom in his voice that only Matthew himself seemed to catch. The Private in question smiled sheepishly.

"So you are from a town near the border?"

"Urm….Yeah, I—"

Beilschmidt interrupted him, "If you used to live right by the SNA, you know all their secrets, yeah? C'mon, spill! I need to get into the Officers' good books or they'll keep me a Lance _forever_, and someone as great as me does not do well in such a shit position-"

"I don't know anything, all right? You can be close to something and not know all their secrets, you know," snapped Alfred, frustrated at the sudden attention. Any other day, any other _topic_, he would have been happy for it. But this just made him uncomfortable.

The Lance snorted. "Tsh, you're no fun, Jonesy. You could have just bullshitted something for a laugh, y'know – 'suppose you're too boring for that."

Alfred froze. The Private wasn't about to take that blow to his pride. Matthew caught the way his look-a-like's shoulders tensed and wished he'd sat somewhere else.

"I ain't boring. Fine, fine. I'll tell you something interesting about them if you're so damn keen to know."

"That's more like it! I like a good story."

"This isn't a _story_, Beilschmidt. It's true."

That piqued the man's interested good and proper. He said nothing, only smiled wryly, red eyes glinting mischievously. Alfred was aware of Honda shifting his chair further away from them – why, he was unsure, perhaps the man could sense the atmosphere getting heavier. Matthew seemed to feel it too, but there was no discrete way he could move from between the two men who were now staring at each other intently – one with a glare, the other a wide smirk.

"This happened when I was twelve," Alfred began slowly, seeming to think every word over carefully, "Four years after I moved to the area. By then, I already knew what they were like. I was used to it. Contrary to all the propaganda that gets chucked in our faces nowadays, they're a fairly quiet bunch and within those four years there'd only been two instances where there had been any border crossings that had put us in danger-"

"Urgh, get on with it would you, lunch break doesn't last forever," Beilschmidt whined.

"Give him a chance, eh. He's just getting into it."

"Thanks, Mattie. So, basically, I'd not really had any reason to be wary of these guys. But then, sometime at the beginning of March the year I was gonna be thirteen, a group of Nouveaus came over the border. There were loads of them. Must have been, because we were a whole mile from where they'd started off and they'd scattered into a bunch of other towns too. See, from what I heard living there at least, there were two types of Nouveaus: the quite ones who just want to live in peace and get the SNA trading with more countries and the bastards who don't care for nothing but expanding their borders. This lot was the latter, obviously. So they all came into our town, started setting fire to things. Dad acted pretty quick; he found me staring at the window and watch and just said 'Alfred, we're leaving' then grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me out the house.

"We might have been safe there, maybe, but seeing our neighbours being pulled from their own houses then beaten and made to watch their house be set alight didn't really strike confidence. So…we just ran I guess. Hid in the bushes and waited for it to end. Thankfully, because the Nouveaus were spread pretty thin, the police were able to control it so the army didn't have to step in. Would have been weird that, because we'd never had any soldiers in our town because they were all stationed by the border.

"When we went back to our house it was clear someone had been there; Dad rooted around for ages to make sure nothing had gone and there wasn't some guy, armed to the teeth, under our beds or something. While he was doing that, I stayed in the living room. Did a bit of poking around myself. Then I found this book, this diary looking thing I guess, sticking out from under one of the armchairs. I'd never seen that in the house before. So, of course, I looked through it and I find all these diagrams of guns and cannons – like I'd seen in books on the SNA, only ten times more detailed and with all the technical bits in them. Like a manual. And between all that was lots of writing that turned out to be journal entries.

"It turned out I'd basically struck gold. No one outside the SNA knows how their weaponry works and no one outside the SNA knows how the SNA _thinks._ And I had both right there in my hands. And guess what? I have both in my duffel bag, in my room."

The rest of the table just sat and stared at him. Matthew's jaw was slack, Beilschmidt's smug grin had faded and Honda – though he was still relatively reserved – had a strange twinkle in his eye that could have been mistaken for an impressed look.

Matthew was the first to speak. "You never told me you were stashing military secrets _in our room!_" He whispered – sounding a little exasperated, in all honesty.

"I never told anyone I had military secrets in our room, or anywhere for that matter."

"So, you did not tell anyone at all?"

"'Course he didn't, Kiku, because there aren't any!" Beilschmidt barked, "He's just lying to impress us!"

"I'm not lying. I can go and get it if you want. How long have we got left of lunch?"

Matthew looked at his watch. "Urm, ten minutes or so?"

Alfred grinned. "That's plenty of time! I'll be right back."

Without waiting for the others to answer, he took off from the canteen – leaving his what was left of his food on the table. Chuckling lightly, the group returned to their own plates to finish what was left on them. But not before Matthew caught sight of Alfred's tray.

"Oh for god's- He's eaten everything but the vegetables."

Failing all discretion, Alfred took the stairs two at a time up top the first floor. He found it elating he'd be able to impress the others so easily - especially since he hadn't thought twice about the diary since that morning when he'd unpacked all his clothes. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, however, he faltered.

Who am I kidding? I can't let them read it: they'll never speak to me again.

That was the problem: he hadn't been entirely truthful with is story and the entries in the book would make that painfully obvious.

Still musing this dilemma over, he trudged to his room, rummaging through his bag until he located the book. It was rather tatty, spiral-bound, covered in mud from its various escapades across goodness knows where. He flicked through the pages. Some of the stuff was fairly safe to let the others see, but there were large chunks that Alfred would happily take to his grave – and he wanted to be cremated.

_Maybe if I come up with an excuse not to hand it to them, just show them a few pages,_ he considered on his way back to the mess block. The book itself looked rather worse for wear; maybe he could say it was too fragile to hand around?

Still fretting, Alfred crossed the tarmac courtyard between the dorms and the mess block a little faster than he would have liked. Anxiety did strange things to him. Like how he'd fidgeted so much in his chair the time he'd been called to the headteacher's office that he'd actually _damaged_ the joints and when the – unfortunately overweight – caretaker had sat down on it later for a breather, it had fallen to pieces. And the time when he'd been meeting a could-possibly-be-my-girlfriend, he'd been so caught up in pacing he'd almost knocked an old woman over and nearly got run over. Twice.

Matthew, Beilschmidt and Honda were still waiting for him at the table when he came back, the Jap and Canadian chatting quietly whilst the other drummed his fingers on the table. Whoever the fourth man had been, he'd left.

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. _At least that makes things _slightly_ less awkward,_ he figured. The man had seemed a little…stressy.

In an attempt not to disturb the conversation, Alfred slipped into the now-vacant seat – rather than conspicuously plonking himself down between the talking men. Beilschmidt, however, was clearly on the ball. The look of boredom that had previously occupying his face evaporated and he gave Matthew a playful nudge to get his attention. Well, as playful as an elbow to the face could be.

"_Gil, _what is your p- Alfred! You're back already." Matthew swivelled in his chair to face him. Alfred noted that while Honda didn't appear too interested by his return, he didn't look too put out by Matthew suddenly ignoring him either.

"Yeah. I got the diary thing…from my room…like I said I was going…to…" Alfred could have hit himself for stumbling over his words like that, he really could.

Beilschmidt's creepy-demon eyes light up. "Awesome! Hand it over then!" he demanded, snatching at the book.

Alfred pulled it from is reach. "Woah, man. No way. This thing's really…fragile. I don't want you to damage it."

"You don't trust me?" The man made a strange expression that on anyone else could have passed as a pout. "I'll be careful, I promise."

"Really, Gil. Plus, there's a whole bunch of super dull pages that you don't want to read anyway. I'll just skip to the good stuff, yeah?"

The Lance didn't look overly thrilled by this prospect but leant back in his chair anyway. He waved a hand, gesturing for Alfred to begin.

"Okay, so, like I said, most of it is really boring. But there are some photographs in here that are quite good…" Alfred flicked through the pages, looking for the right one. "Aha!" he proclaimed in triumph, "Here's a good one."

Laying the book flat on the table, he pointed to a hazy picture stuck to the lined page. It depicted a man – about thirty, tall, mud-brown hair and circular spectacles – smiling and waving at the camera. He was holding an oily rag and was covered with greasy spots himself. Behind him, an old model of a car with its bonnet open. The dark lighting suggested it was some sort of garage, along with the shelves of tools and cardboard boxes on the wall behind him. The only thing that betrayed the abnormality of the photograph was the large flag hanging from the wall – a deep blue fabric with a white silhouette of a flaming torch. The flag of the SNA.

"Wooooow," Beilschmidt drawled. Alfred could have filled a bucket with the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Oh come on, it's just a guy's diary. What did you expect, a _Boston Spitter_?"

"I thought you said the pictures were _interesting_. That's just…some guy. Not even a soldier either – what decade did he nick that car from, hm? The 00's?"

Matthew – who had developed over these few short hours a sort of sixth sense when it came to Alfred's moods – cut in hastily.

"Shut up, Gil. I bet there are other photos too. And so what if he's not freaking military? This is tons better – we get to see into the minds of the _normal_ ones. You know…the majority?"

Beilschmidt rolled his eyes but didn't comment further. Alfred shot Matthew a silent look of thanks. _It's nothing_, said the shrug he sent back.

"Matthew is right, Gilbert," Honda piped up "This photograph, I think, is quite interesting. See, here." The Japanese man pointed to a shadier section of the picture. In it, aside from a number of boxes, was a thin, dark shape propped against the wall.

_Oh_, Alfred thought, as he remembered what it was, _how could I have forgotten that?_

"It is, if I am not wrong, a New-Age Coil-Rifle – " Alfred was rather impressed he could tell that from a blurry shadow " –This means that even the casual citizens have weaponry."

"Casual my arse: the guy who had this attacked Alfred town!" Beilschmidt scoffed rather loudly, drawing the attention of a few diners on the neighbouring tables.

"Please calm down, people will h-"

"What's going on over here?" came an authoritative and- _far, far too familiar voice_.

_Oh my fuck_, Alfred panicked and slammed the diary shut, shoving it under the table just as the Lieutenant – of all people – arrived at their table. It took Alfred a moment to figure out why the other was actually there – _he is holding a tray, evenhehastoeatidiot._ Still, he tightened his grip on the diary below the table and the man looked him up and down curiously.

"What's that you have under the table, Private?"

_Ah, shit_. "Nothing, sir!" he insisted, grinning innocently. Perhaps he was a little too insistent, as the Lieutenant did not look impressed.

"Private. I will say this again. What do you have. Under. The. Ta. Ble."

"It's really noth-"

"If it was nothing then you would not be so keen to hide it from me. Now tell me-"

The Lieutenant was cut off by a snicker from Beilschmidt. "Calm it, _ja_? It's really nothing, just some weirdo porn stash he wanted to show us."

Alfred's jaw dropped. The Lieutenant, to his surprise, went the same shade of red as he felt.

"_LANCE CORPORAL-!"_

"Geez, no need to be so formal, man. I thought we were bezzy-mates," Beilschmidt teased, punching the other on the leg – surprisingly light-hearted as he embarrassed a senior officer.

The man scowled, pointedly ignoring Beilschmidt's question. He turned back to Alfred. The intimidating look he was trying to shoot was somewhat dampened by the heavy colouring in his cheeks. _Huh,_ Alfred thought, _he actually does function as a human._

"Is that the _truth_, Private? Because we prefer if you keep those sort of things in the privacy of your room." If it'd been any other man standing before him, Alfred could have burst out laughing and not stopped until his lungs gave in and he'd pulled all the muscles in his ribcage.

As it was, he fought down a smirk. "Not really, sir -" He had to tell someone eventually, after all, "It's…well it's a diary, sir."

The Lieutenant raised an eyebrow. "A diary?"

"I-it's not mine!" Alfred added hastily, "Someone from the SNA wrote it, I found it in my house about seven years ago."

Whatever the Lieutenant had been expecting, it certainly wasn't that. In an attempt to cover his surprise, he coughed into his fist and said "ahem" a few times. _Wow, really?_

"Ah yes. You…you ur- live in-?" With the man stuttering, Alfred felt safe enough to flash him a look that said _continue at your own peril_ which made the other splutter again.

When the Lieutenant had regained his composure, he spoke again: "Well, this is a very _interesting_ development, Private. Keep it secret for now. We may want to discuss it with you at a later date." He shot a look at Beilschmidt. "You too, Gilbert. Don't go gossiping about this: it's not big and it's not clever."

Beilschmidt just laughed. "I get ya, I get ya." The other didn't look too impressed by being shrugged off, but turned on his heel without commenting and marched off.

From that point onwards, the day was almost uneventful. Alfred and the other new recruits were introduced to the wonders of _drill practice_ at 2000 hours, which was even more disciplinary than the training they'd undertaken earlier. All four wings of the compound – North, East, South and West – were present, though they'd been separated off into groups according to ranks. While Alfred had done his best to familiarise himself with the rank system here, he still relied on Matthew for the finer details.

"So, drill leader," Matthew whispered to him whilst trying to pretend he was entirely focused.

Alfred nodded. "Yeah, I see him. The guy with the…dot thing, right?" Matthew rolled his eyes at that. "Urm, I'm not sure what rank he is but he's definitely an officer because his uniform is darker."

"Hit the nail on the head. That's Gafur Saikia, Captain, East Wing. He doesn't talk much about where he's from but Gil says he's from Northeast India."

"Does Gilbert know _everything?_"

"Don't be silly, Al. He just knows the interesting things. It's what he does. Plus, he's an East Lance Corporal, you'd think he'd know his own superiors."

Matthew had a point. Aside from quizzing him for the rest of the session ("No, no. The globe insignia is for the Majors and the three diamonds is the Captains") the two remained silent. Well, Matthew did. Alfred had trouble not making satisfactory grunts when he did something right, or groaning quietly when he messed up. On the other hand, Matthew was so silent that Alfred might have forgotten he was there if he didn't keep popping into Alfred's line of sight.

Though they weren't able to approach the East Captain during or after practice, Alfred got the sense of a more easy going man than their Lieutenant (not to say, of course, that Saikia wasn't strict. Far from it). They left for the dorm block with only a few stern look for their chatter – not even a reprimanding.

The whole experience had been, quite frankly, bizarre. The Institute of Global Warfare was a wide-spread organisation (as you would expect from its title) yet even this relatively obscure compound was a melting pot of races and nationality. Alfred's town had been rather limited in that aspect. Being amongst this diverse crowd was distracting for him, to say the least. He caught snippets of lulling accents and foreign babble from every angle; every creed seemed to flock around him in a mass of tinted skin and distinctive physical features: men and woman from Asia, South America, Africa, the _world_. Even some of them smelt exotic. There was a mish-mashed odour of flowers, spices, car exhaust, petrol, cigarette smoke, cut grass, wet wool and so many miscellaneous scents wafting around that Alfred's nose just abandoned all hope of trying to distinguish them all from one another and simply label the smell "different" and have done with it.

In his distraction, he didn't realise Matthew was talking at him.

"-for a couple of hours."

No reply.

"Alfred?"

Still nothing.

Matthew nudged the spaced-out Private with a pointy elbow.

"Hey, were you listening?"

"Oh, what? I didn't catch that Mattie, zoned-out," he yawned, "'m tired." Which was not a lie, as his feet felt all the more leaden by the second, dragging even more with his heavy-soled boots.

"Oh," Matthew said curtly, mouth forming a strange half-pout as he stuck his top lip up and bit the bottom one. Despite the amusing nature of that, the tone in the other's voice hadn't sounded too impressed.

"I'm sorry, Matt, I get really spacy when I'm sleepy. I bet I could even tune out the Lieutenant in full rant-with-a-megaphone if I was too tired."

It wasn't much, but at least Matthew stopped pouting. "I just asked whether you wanted to hang out with Gil, Kiku and me for a few hours. It's only 2130. Since it's your first day and all, I thought it'd be good to introduce you to some of the others or at least tell you who to avoid on-pain-of-death. But, I guess, if you're tired you should sleep or you'll be really ratty in the morning. I would have liked you to meet Toris, though. He's a Corporal for East block, you know. Tends to favour the newbies, plus he's a really nice, hardworking g-"

"Do you mean Corporal Lori- urm…something-something?" Alfred cut in.

"_Lorinaitis?_"

"Yeah, him. He's pretty cool; he showed me to my room because I was late arriving and he didn't scold me for it too much either even though that seems to be everyone's hobby here."

"Ur, yeah. That's him. I didn't expect you to have met him ye-" Matthew paused, seeming to remember something.

"-Why _were_ you late anyway? You never expl-"

"OH WOULD YOU LOOK AT THE TIME!" Alfred exclaimed hurriedly, though there wasn't a watch in sight, "I'm bushed so I'm going to go to bed try not to miss me too much say hello to the other three for me, okay!" And he jogged off into further into the dormitory block and disappeared among the swaths of people migrating upstairs.

_Now what was _that_ all about_, wondered Matthew, and he continued to ponder and he fed into the flow of recruits heading to the social lounge. He would remain bemused all evening.

**Cripes, I drew that canteen scene out (but it was all there for a reason, I swear, you have suffered for a cause). And no Arthur yet! I'm not going to tell you when he'll crop up because not knowing is more fun, but I can tell you it will be **_**soon**_**. There's still a few more canon characters I need to introduce, along with a couple of "OCs" that I promise are only there because I didn't want to make any of the canon characters truly horrible. They represent countries, after all. Plus I needed a few people with the same nationality (they're only minor-ish characters, I swear).**

**One note: Gafur Saikia is a name I've conjured up for India. I wasn't sure of any common fandom names for him, so I researched to find him a suitable one. "Gafur" means "Invincible" and "Saikia" is a surname used in the North East of India and roughly means "leader of 100 men", which I thought was rather suiting for a Captain! Unfortunately, I'm not confident with his characterisation and he does not play a massive role in the plot so he won't be appearing too much. Send me a message if you'd like to see a little more of him, though! There's always the opportunity for miscellaneous scenes to add to entertainment.**

**Feel free to drop me some constructive criticism and let me know what you thought of characterisation! I'm trying a slightly different approach to them (let's make the speech patterns definitive!)**


	3. Chapter 3: The Captain

**Chapter 3**

The room was mercifully cool when Alfred reached it – good for a deep sleep. He couldn't remember a time where he'd been this tired. It felt good though, to finally be rid of some of that pent up energy that his father had always made note to complain about. He'd spent most of the day running on adrenalin alone. Now that his excitement had gone, it was as though someone had drilled a whole in his head and sent all that enthusiasm spiralling away. Hence why he'd not joined Mattie and the others. As nice as it would have been to have spent the evening mucking about and getting to know them better, sleep was always his priority. Sleep and food. The good stuff in life.

He nearly just collapsed on the bottom bunk before he remembered that Matthew'd already staked his claim on it. Damn that lucky Canadian. How dare he have arrived months ago! For a moment, he was tempted just to screw it all and sleep there anyway, but the other could just overturn the mattress in the middle of the night if he wanted. Alfred wouldn't put it past him.

The short climb was enough to drain the last of his energy. Swinging his legs onto the bunk, he cursed at how heavy he suddenly felt. How melodramatic. At least his roommate wasn't there; else he would have been privy to Alfred's fitful moaning as he tried to drag the duvet over himself. _Ergh, no way, embarrassing. _He gave up after it became entangled in his legs. It wasn't that cold. And he was still wearing all his clothes (sans his boots, which he'd remembered to kick off on his way in).

Thankfully, he drifted off rather quickly. He was treated to a rather bizarre dream: training, again, when the Captain finally made his appearance and turned out to be a large, talking rabbit. Then the Lieutenant evolved into a dragon and tried to bite his head off, only to be thwarted by a giant eagle with circular spectacles and a beaming smile not unlike Alfred's own.

Then the image was shattered by a sharp knock at the door.

* * *

><p>The social lounge was even more packed than usual. Matthew attributed it to the swaths of new or transferred recruits they'd had today but was none the less a little peeved. He'd only just managed to get a regular circle of armchairs settled and now they were occupied by some weedy-looking South-wingers.<p>

Still, no need to make a big deal over it.

"Oi, shit-brains," came a loud voice from behind him, making the Southers jump, "Those are our seats, so shift. Lance Corporal's orders."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Gil-" he warned.

"I said move!"

"Gil!" he snapped, spinning on his heel. Gilbert's broad shit-eating grin faltering momentarily, the Lance's eyes widened, then settled back to usual as he barked with laughter.

_Hopeless!_ Matthew thought, though refrained from saying so. Gilbert was probably the only person he knew who he regularly lost his temper with. Whether that was because the Lance knew all too well he was a regular prat but did nothing about it, or just because they'd known each other so long, Matthew couldn't say. Still, didn't give the albino reason to wind him up like that.

"He's just kidding" he said to the nervous looking duo of Southers, before they shat themselves and ran, "you can stay there if you want."

Gilbert didn't look too thrilled, but who really cared. Matthew took him by the forearm and led him away from the armchairs, to the stools along the bar. Gilbert complained loudly at this development:

"But the stools are so uncomfortable, Mattie," he whined, "Can't we kick some newbies out of their chairs, please?"

In response, the Canadian just kept dragging him closer until the red-eyed man sighed in defeat and sat down.

They were lucky to find even a barstool to sit on. With the rest of the room so packed, most of them had been taken by weary looking recruits who probably could have done with going to bed like Alfred but were stubbornly ordering faux-alcohol cocktails and chatting with those around them or sitting the wrong-way-round and resting their backs and elbows on the smooth bartop, just admiring the room.

As spaces went, it was none too shabby. The base's financial adviser and budgeter had succumbed to pressure from the recruit body a couple of years back, rumours had it, to refurbish the place and make it look suited for the name it was accredited with.

Matthew had, fortunately, joined too late to see the room in its former "glory", but he'd been insured by Gilbert that should it ever return to such a state it'd be best to bring an umbrella for falling plaster.

The ceiling was slightly lower than an average room, which gave it the air of a pub or bar rather that the assembly hall it had been used as long ago (an old use neither Matthew nor Gilbert were privy to). Most of the décor was mismatched at best, but that somehow was the right note to strike in the cultural melting pot: a firm, leather sofa here, a plump armchair that sagged a foot when you sat in it there, rickety stools and wooden chairs that were always last to be taken dotted by the skirting boards and bar. Deep reds and olive greens, cobalt and sun orange – even a horrendous yellow-and-black floral print chaise lounge that most wouldn't touch with a ten-foot barge pole. There was a different style of curtain on each of the five windows and the single pair of French doors in the room; the bar top was a different wood to the panels supporting it. The only thing that was consistent was the flooring, and that was only because no one had decided to donate their linoleum for the cause. That was essentially what the room was. Old possessions, relocated for complete strangers to sit on.

Thinking of it this way, The Chaise Lounge was no surprise.

"It's empty today," Gilbert commented, gazing at the offensive chair in question, "Looks like he went to bed early tonight."

Matthew spared a nonchalant glace, nodded, turned back to the bar. "Everyone has to sleep, Gil, even him."

"Yeah…I guess," the albino muttered. Something in the man's tone struck Matthew as off.

"What's the matter, Gilbert?"

The other shook his head. "I dunno, I'm just uneasy maybe. I like to know where the big guy is. He can't sneak up on me then."

"It was quite chilly when we came in, perhaps he went for a walk? Didn't you say he liked the cold?"

Gilbert only shuddered.

"Look, don't worry about it, eh?" Matthew said, trying to sooth his friend's nerves. It wasn't often the older man was this jumpy. "How about you keep an eye out for Kiku and Toris? I'll get us drinks. Don't look at The Chaise Lounge."

Jerking his head in a way that must have been an affirmative, Gilbert swivelled in his seat, back to the offending chair, and began to scan the room for the other two. Matthew called the barman over, ordering a beer for Gilbert and a soft-drink for himself. Being a minor, he wasn't allowed to touch the alcohol himself, but the Lance Corporal loved nothing more than to drown himself in the stuff. Not that it really made much difference for either of them: there was no real alcohol at the Institute. That didn't stop Gilbert dancing wildly after seven pints, though.

Whilst he waited, Matthew blew on the back of the other's neck, laughing when he jumped out of his skin.

"Mattie, that is not awesome. I thought you were awesome."

"What are you so scared of, anyway?" Matthew asked, skirting artfully round the man's 'insults', "He's not even in your block; he can't _do_ anything to you. If that was the case, you'd be more scared of your cousin."

"Yeah, but Luddy and I are family so it's different. And I know he's got a massive stick-up-his-arse, but he's nice enough and he wouldn't rat on me, you know. Especially not after those fallouts with the Captain."

"But neither Luddy- I mean, Ludwig _nor_ you-know-who can reprimand you properly. That's _your_ Major's job, not North block's!"

"Woah, what-" he frowned, "-You think I'm scared of him because of official crap? Do I seem like the sort of person who's afraid of official crap?"

Matthew had to admit, he had a point.

"Then why? You've never told me, Gil. And you said we'd look out for each other. This is clearly causing you distress, so I need to look out for you. But it's hard to sex a beaver without knowing what you're looking for."

"Er, Matt. Off topic."

The Canadian shook his head. "Look, what I meant was: I can't help you if I don't know what I need to be helping. Just tell me, would you?"

Grimacing, Gilbert considered his options. Mattie was a trustworthy, relatively resourceful young man and probably the closest thing to a conventional friend he had in this joint. On the other hand, getting him involved would probably have repercussions, and not necessarily the good kind either. He was considering making some excuse to duck out of it, or bluff some mundane story of how he had a deathly fear of yellow flowers, when he saw the doors open and Kiku slip quietly into the room.

"Hey, Mattie! Honda's here," he exclaimed, ushering the Japanese man over. With the drinks and the new company (soon, Toris joined them too), Matthew didn't bring up the issue. Then, somewhere after Gilbert fell off his barstool and the other's laughed at his expense…

He forgot all about it.

* * *

><p>The Lieutenant was not a man who liked to be kept waiting.<p>

Growing up in a household with a father obsessed with punctuality and a stern uncle and aunt who dropped in constantly had made him appreciate just how beautiful order was. He liked things to be done properly and, if they weren't, he'd get heated and start shouting – or, as he would put it, "instigate appropriate remedial methods". Unfortunately, this made most of his inferiors petrified of him and he'd gained a reputation for being ruthless and cruel. Had the Lieutenant been aware of this, the likelihood was he would have backed down a little. He wasn't unreasonable. Not in the slightest.

After all, it was perfectly reasonable to get worked up if you were missing sleep because some layabout Private wouldn't open the goddamn door.

"Private Jones," he barked, rapping on the door again. Through the plywood door he heard a loud groan, followed by a clanging and a yelp, some cursing, and finally the scuffle of tired feet across the floor.

_Finally,_ the Lieutenant thought. The door opened a moment later, bringing with it a bleary Jones – glasses skewwhiff, hair a bird's nest.

It took the other a moment of dumb blinking and squinting before his eyes widened and he snapped to attention. "L-Lieutenant, what are you doing here?"

"Captain's orders," he explained, ever so helpfully. "Get dressed, you're going upstairs."

* * *

><p>Alfred had stirred at the first knock. Still half asleep, he'd grumbled for five more minutes, rolled over and jumped out of his skin at the Lieutenant bellowing his name, banging his head on the ceiling and catching his elbow on the bed's railings. Now <em>that<em> was something he could have gone without. Heart-racing from the shock, he climbed down the ladder, swearing under his breath at the throb from his head-bump.

He tried to act surprised as he opened the door, to distract the other from the embarrassing yelping, but all of it seemed to bounce of the broad man and make Alfred feel oddly small all of a sudden, something he'd not experienced in a long time.

"Captain's orders. Get dressed, you're going upstairs."

In the moment it took for the order to fully sink in, Alfred made himself look the gormless fool. Jaw slack, hair untameable, he resembled a proper village idiot. Not that the other thought any better of him. Jones was positive the German – Matthew'd finally told him – man hated his guts. Most all of him, in fact.

"Jump to it, Private: it's late and we are _all_ tired."

Alfred still wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he pulled on his boots that he'd kicked into a corner and tried to flatten his hair a little.

"Your room is a tip, Private," his superior commented. Alfred thought better than to snap back at him. He was probably in trouble right now, he realised with a sinking feeling, and reckless comments would do him no good. Even if they were much deserved. At the door, the Lieutenant seemed to be fiddling with the pleat of his trousers, most likely itching to get going for some annoying Lieutenanty-reason. Now recovering from the shock of being woken in the middle of the night, Alfred felt sullen and twitchy. Captain's orders or not, he hated the Lieutenant for waking him from the first decent night's sleep he might had in a week. As the other lead him from his room, he glared silently at the back of the man's bulging neck and tried to envision him being chased of a cliff by the eagle from his dream. Unfortunately, Alfred's imagination kept running away with him and instead of a gruesome and bloody death, the Lieutenant landed on his arms and started doing press-ups because he was just that freaking military.

He gave up after that.

In the middle of the dormitory block, there were two stairways. Both were set in tight spirals of rusting iron grills, with a chicken fence mesh around them to stop everyone falling out. To reach them, one had to walk across an expanse that separated the East and West wings (or the North and South wings, depending on the floor) from each other, aided by walkways made of a similar iron grill to the stairs. The clanging their boots made on them made the hairs on the Private's neck stand on end.

_It's quiet, _he thought, _really, really quiet._ A quick glance upwards proved there wasn't anyone moving around on the walkways above, the recruits either downstairs in the lounge or long since retired to their quarters. Alfred didn't like that. All the other times he'd been in here, the walkways had been buzzing with activity. He'd never liked the silence and he hated being the only one making noise _in_ the silence too. Made him envision horror movie scenarios in his head. He shuddered.

Thankfully for Alfred, the Lieutenant was in quick-march mode and almost jogged up the stairs. Alfred was quick to note that the Wings alternated on each floor: East-West on the first, North-South on the second and so on and so forth. He still didn't see the point in that compass business. Sure, it was a convenient way to separate them into squads, but it just seemed like unnecessary segregation to Alfred – especially since Matthew had told him most of the training areas were mixed Wings anyway. Still, the barrier didn't seem to stop people making acquaintances, which was the secondary point of the IGW in the first place. The primary was protection. The secondary was unification.

Alfred's knowledge of how the place had come about was hazy at best. What he knew of it he'd learnt solely from his father, a mechanic and avid investor from the heart of Michigan. The man hadn't remembered much of his schooling past what he needed for his work, but he bestowed in his son little snippets of information that the lad himself would never be taught.

"_They make heroes out of boys, son. They drive back the ones who would do bad to the world, keep them in their place."_

And, when word had reached their ears that their nearest compound was recruiting, Alfred had almost ordered his father to let him go. And here he was, in probable deep-shit on his first day. What a kick in the teeth.

Caught up in his thoughts, Alfred almost kept on walking when the Lieutenant left the stairwell on the third floor. Flushed, he scuffled back down the extra few steps he'd climbed – the other didn't seem to have noticed – and settled back behind the European's steady march. Just as he'd guessed from the first floor, there was nobody out in the corridors and walkways and he found himself sticking closely behind the other man and glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

A rattle in the air ducts above them. Alfred's hand flew to the vials round his neck as he sucked in a sharp breath. Wide, sky-blue eyes latched onto the vent's opening, expecting some hideous being to jump out and end both of their miserable lives. Instead, a hand clamped on his shoulder and shook him. The Lieutenant.

"What's wrong with you, Private? You seem a little tense," he said. Alfred was surprised to hear a hint of concern in his tones, but that was probably just wishful thinking.

"Sir, I haven't had a lot of sleep recently and…I think I'm hearing things."

"You mean, in the air ducts? That's nothing to fret about: it happens on occasion. The scuttling and the banging. We've sent engineers up there but they couldn't find anything wrong with the ducts themselves so we think we might have some minor rat infestation. Nothing to shriek about, Private."

Alfred opened his mouth to protest – _I wasn't shrieking – _but the muscular man had already turned and continued his stride, signalling that the conversation was over.

The Captain's office was in the third row back, meaning the duo had to follow the snake-like corridor past twenty rooms before they could even see it. Unlike the Private's own row on the first floor, this row had half the number of rooms – five in total, with solid oak doors instead of the cheaper plywood. One of the light-tubes above them flickered on and off like strobe lighting.

The Lieutenant strode purposefully down the corridor to the fourth room along, knocking smartly on the door in an odd little rhythm – knock knock knock-knock knock. Alfred caught up in time to hear two answering knocks, after which the Lieutenant turned the doors brass handle and dragged Alfred into the room with him.

The office was dimly lit. Dark shadows obscured the recesses of the room, thrown by strange flickering lights on the wall that Alfred had only seen in pictures before – _gas lights?_ The walls were panelled with unpolished mahogany - a gloomy touch - with a thick, leafy pattern sculpted into the edges of each section. A pattern Alfred could have sworn he recognised, though he couldn't quite place a name to it.

As he stumbled to a halt, a movement from the back caught his eye; snapping them away from the room's furnishings, he spotted a being in the corner of the room. It seemed to come out of thin air - it certainly hadn't been there before and the Private could see no other doors. As it drew closer to them, the light finally reaching it, it turned out to be a man - the Captain.

Whatever Alfred had expected him to look like, it certainly wasn't this. Judging by the groomed and severe appearance of the Lieutenant, the young Private had been expecting a veritable block of a man with a military buzz cut, a chest the size of a small tank and shoulders broader. Perhaps a permanent glare, small beady eyes that scrutinised his every move. A uniform with buttons so shiny they could blind a man at twenty places. Six and a half feet tall? At least the muscles of a professional body-builder!

In reality, the Captain couldn't have been more different. His hair was an unruly and rather fluffed mop of sandy blond hair - like he had just rolled out of bed, which the bags under his eyes didn't help the appearance of. What Alfred had expected to be a glare was merely a light frown, and his eyes were a bright emerald beneath two dark eyebrows. Even his build was lacking: he was fairly average in terms of height, a little shorter than Alfred himself; gangly arms; a small bulge at his stomach enhanced by the uniform belt.

At least the Private has been right about that. The uniform the Captain wore was meticulously well tailored and pressed, and there looked to be so must starch in the collar that no amount of force could bend or crease it. Despite this surprise, Alfred couldn't help but feel intimidated as the other's forest orbs turned on him. He was a Captain after all. And his reputation for pleasantness was awful.

Private Jones opened his mouth to greet the other but he faltered. When he'd travelled here, across an entire states, his father had rigorously drilled him with military etiquette. _"To help you make the best impression,"_ he father had assured him.

_"Do not speak unless spoken to,"_ he'd told his son one day as they waited on a platform, _"Especially if you've only just met someone. Superiors are all up 'emselves, so you need to at least act like you respect them and wait until they tell you to speak, yeah?"_

Alfred had nodded. _"Got it, dad_." Then they'd both beamed at each other as if sharing a private joke and fallen into silence until the train pulled into the station.

It hurt him to remember his father. _I wonder where he is now_, Alfred mused, _and will he have settled down somewhere yet? What if they send him away because he has no papers?_

Thankfully, he was broken from this reverie before he spiralled too far into it. The Captain coughed lightly, saluting his inferiors. Alfred and the Lieutenant responded appropriately. The Captain gave them a gruff, "At ease."

"Private Jones," the Captain said, turning to address him, "if you could, have a seat and excuse us a moment. I need a private word with Lieutenant Beilschmidt, and then we can get underway."

_Did he say Beilschmidt? And his accent, that's just like-!_

"Private?"

"Ah, yes, sir, right away, sir." Hastily, Alfred took a seat in front of the desk. The Captain nodded his head sharply, hair bobbing, and ushered the Lieutenant into the corridor, closing the door behind them.

Silence fell. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked steadily. Alfred became strangely aware of his own breathing.

The time alone gave him the time to think, at least. Matthew had speculated the Captain's absence at training and drill was some ill health that the man was frequently struck by, yet the Captain seemed perfectly well, if not well-_rested_. Alfred saw no reason to fake such a thing. He couldn't possibly _hate_ exertion; else he wouldn't have climbed so high in the ranks. Still, he had seemed a wee podgy around the stomach. Alfred sniggered at the thought.

Then there was the Lieutenant –_ another_ Beilschmidt. Maybe there was some gene in the family that made them all difficult to stand, but Alfred was not keen on either of the pair. His motives for detesting the Lieutenant were evident to him: the man was intolerable. But for Gilbert? Sure, they'd not got off on the best foot, but he seemed an all right guy, even if he was a little shady. Maybe it was the eyes. They were still disconcerting. Alfred did not like disconcerting things.

And finally…the Captain's voice gave him pause. Despite its odd lilts – which were probably some regional twang – the accent was a practical mirror of Alfred's own. Which was impossible. Completely impossible.

The whole train of thought opened a well of guilt for him, but Alfred was willing to teeter on the edge of it for a moment of ponder. He'd not been truthful. It had hurt him to lie to new friends, but it had been hard enough on him back home when he was _surrounded_ by people just like him, let alone here, where everyone would detest him if the truth was outed.

_But if the Captain-? I knew someone of mild power gave my request some backing, so was it him? Or maybe they used him as an example, since we're the same?_

Alfred couldn't wrap his head around it without making his head hurt. He resolved to think about it tomorrow, when he wasn't fatigued. He wished he could talk it over with Matt, who seemed to understand him, but that would only break his trust.

To distract himself, he cast his glance around the office. Despite the largeness of the room, the shady walls and corners shrunk the feel of it to a cosy space. There was a large amount of empty floor space but a good chunk of the room was taken by a massive, wall-length, ceiling-high bookcase, whose owner clearly read too much: it was crammed to overflowing. In front of the bookcase - which occupied the back wall - was a long desk made of the same wood as the walls. On it were piles upon piles of books and paper, a pen pot and an empty cup and saucer. Strangely enough, there wasn't a computer in sight. The whole room had a rather timeless feel to it; it reminded Alfred of a museum he'd once visited back home. It all seemed far too expensive, especially in comparison to his own room. Alfred felt a pang of jealousy on realising that there was no bed, which meant the quarters were even bigger than they looked. Or maybe the Captain even had another room.

Before he could get too worked over the injustice of it all, the door opened again. The Captain entered, seeming to mutter something under his breath. There was no sign of the Lieutenant. The other shut the door firmly then proceeded to his desk, taking a seat across from the Private.

He even _sat_ ram-rod straight. Alfred doubted the back of the chair saw much use and wondered briefly on what one had to do to a child to iron out their creases. It suited him, though. If Alfred had tried it, he would have looked to be trying too hard. The Captain just matched it with a haughty gaze and a chin that never met his neck.

"Forgive me," the Captain said, in a manner that was about as apologetic as a huntsman running over a fox, "but I think we'd both benefit from cutting to the chase, so to speak."

Alfred tried not to think _creepy, posh-snob _but his will evaded him.

"Yessir," he beamed, all rays of sunshine.

"Good lad. It's as simple as this ah…Alfred, wasn't it? It's as simple as this: the ground you stand on is incredibly shaky, as you well know. Actions such as this morning's shall not be taken as lightly for you as your fellow recruits. Do I make myself clear?"

Alfred's look of bewilderment answered that question.

"You were _late_, Private."

The Captain drummed his fingers on the table.

Alfred felt his own tightening on his thigh.

"Ridiculously so," The Captain continued, "Perhaps an hour could be excused, given your circumstances, but an entire morning?" Jones could feel the man's glare boring into him. "You were expected at six a-m, sharp, yet you swan in past noon and force someone off their station to coddle you."

"Coddle? You're not talking about Lori- ah, Lorin-"

"Yes Corporal Lorinaitis. Captain Saikia tells me that in his absence, Beilschmidt's cousin and his cronnies smuggled _another_ crate of beer from the stores." The Captain's fight not to shout was plain and obvious on his face, though Alfred wasn't too sure why he was so mad. He hadn't known that would happen. He'd only just got there. Instead, the Captain rose, stalked round the edge of the desk and past the back of his chair. Stopping by the desk again, the man adopted a peculiar pose that was probably meant to look casual.

"Surely, sir, you can't blame me for that." Alfred was too bewildered to even make it a question.

The other simply glared, stalled his answer by neatening a perfect stack of forms on his desk. Finally, he spoke. "Tell me, Jones," he hissed, "are you an arrogant man?"

"Wh- No, sir, I just-"

"How about a child whose body grew, but his mind was left behind?"

Had he been a little more perceptive, the Private might have noticed that the Captain was boiling over, such as a pan of water would if left on a flame too long. Had he been a little less defiant, he also may have apologised hastily and redeemed some hope of a civil conversation. However, Alfred was neither deep nor submissive under pressure and so screamed as if wounded.

"Sir, how could you say such a thing? That's-"

"Then I suggest," the Captain cut in, voice booming as he cut in, "You get some tact and a little discretion and stop drawing attention to yourself! First you were late, then that business with the copse, then flashing some wonder-book around in the canteen to all your _buddies_," he practically spat the word, "I don't want to hear from you, Private. I want you to fade into obscurity until you've matured enough to move up in the ranks. I am the one who'll be held most responsible for your misdemeanours, and I'll not have one of mine fall on his face. In a puddle or otherwise."

Alfred, stunned into silence, gawped. The others hadn't lied in the slightest. The man was a veritable tyrant!

His father has once told him that a quiet voice could rile better than a shout (and the Captain deserved it really), so he asked in the most level voice he could manage: "Will that be all, _sir._"

Alfred could almost see steam coming out of his superior's ears, but by some miracle the Captain quelled his anger. Still, there was a dangerous edge to his voice as he spoke and the Private decided he'd been a little rash: "Yes, Private. That is all for today, but heed my words or I'll send you back to that cruddy, little town of yours before you know anything about it."

_It ain't cruddy, you're clearly just used to a house full of peasants spit-shining your boots, _Alfred thought bitterly.

"Oh, if only you knew, Jones. Nice to see you have some pride though, but if you're going to make it anywhere I suggest you focus it on other things."

Ah. He'd been thinking aloud again. Strangely, it hadn't come back to bite him this time – though he'd once called a boy a foot taller than him a brute and got a roughhousing and nearly a drowning for it, so nothing really compared.

The Captain was still going, "Your father, maybe, he seemed to have his head screwed on right. Didn't catch his name, though."

"It's George, sir."

"Hm…that's oddly fitting," he murmured, rather cryptically.

"He's a good man, like you say. Taught me everything I know, but not all that he knows, unfortunately. I would've liked to know how money and cars work."

The Captain made an odd noise which Alfred took a moment to decipher as a chuckle. _Good god, he's human_. The apparently-human's shoulders relaxed a little as he perched back in his seat, which Alfred took as a good sign.

"Sir, speaking of names and that," the Private continued, determined that he make up for earlier mistakes, even if he detested the man, "I didn't catch yours, either."

The Captain's lips tugged into a smirk.

"It's Arthur. Kirkland. And I expect you to be at your best tomorrow. You may leave, Private Jones."

* * *

><p><strong>I'd like to apologise for my lack of updates and my lack of foresight in the previous two chapters. Exams until July. Will probable update again around then. Thank you for reading.<strong>


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